


a garland of mended dreams

by nightingalesdonotsing (songbirdonvoyage)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Developing Friendships, Fic Exchange, Flower Crowns, Hair Braiding, Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Prompt Fic, Prompt Fill, Slow Burn, Star Gazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-15
Updated: 2019-08-15
Packaged: 2020-09-01 13:42:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20259025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/songbirdonvoyage/pseuds/nightingalesdonotsing
Summary: When Crowley turned his back from Heaven, his wings were not the only thing that was set aflame.





	a garland of mended dreams

**Author's Note:**

> For Summer 2019 Good Omens Fan Exchange
> 
> Gifted to kaleidoreef
> 
> Prompts:  
1) Aziraphale braiding Crowley's hair  
2) Eden-era Aziraphale and Crowley wearing flower crowns they made for each other

.

.

.

Time does not simply come to a halt after Adam and Eve's departure from the Garden of Eden.

In God's diorama, albeit agonizingly slow, time does indeed flow. It may not be something that can be seen or grasp within one's reach, but Crowley can feel it—the idle days stretched out in irreversible minutes, seconds then hours brushing against the small of his back. His body marks the presence of time, and he feels it well enough.

He can never bring himself to appreciate this place—enclosed walls, an all-too-perfect oasis that is potted out of nowhere in the middle of a desert, and most of all, the lack of nuances when it comes to the art of temptation. So, he does his best to taint it, smearing his demonic essence all over—limbs scraping on rocks, thorns snagging on snake scales. Now, it'll be hair catching on branches when he climbs the tallest trees.

He pulls his hair into a protective grip, then releases it, feeling the comforting weight tugging on his neck.

After a morning spent frolicking in the lush greenery (first as a snake, then as a person-shaped being), he collects the fresh harvest of the day in a make-shift basket fashioned from his robe and head to the Eastern Gate.

Aziraphale is sitting at the edge of the high wall, legs dangling in a leisurely manner that is increasingly precarious these days. There is only so much formality the Angel of Eastern Gate, the exemplar of all Principality can endure, after all.

"Crawly!" he waves at him.

This is a usual affair—Crowley visiting Aziraphale on his duty (and Crowley uses the term 'duty' begrudingly, after Aziraphale has many times insisted so), they will then feast under the midday sun, widespread wings as convenient shade almost touching.

"How long have you been here, really?" Crowley asks, spreading the ripe fruits all around them. "How many days since then?"

"... I didn't count. I mean, I'm not supposed to count, am I?" After much deliberation, Aziraphale finally settles on a juicy peach. "My job is to guard the gate, so I shall do it to my best."

"The humans are gone, angel," Crowley says. "There's no point guarding it anymore."

"What if The Almighty needs it?"

"You don't know, do you? We aren't told anything."

"Maybe someday She will tell us something, then."

There aren't instructions of any sort, much less a divine revelation that Aziraphale is stubbornly waiting for. A rumble, a crack and a flash of light—much like his flaming sword, God has already disappeared. All there's left is an angel, a demon and an empty cage.

Crowley stares into the barren landscape blurring into a horizon of azure sky and telltale signs of water. The white-hot sunlight pains his eyes, but the angel's frustrating sense of responsibility is more painful to look at.

This is Waiting for Godot all over, except Godot is somewhere in a pitch-dark room playing poker of her own ineffable devising, them the playing cards that are yet to be dealt.

"This is very delicious..." Aziraphale finishes the last bite with gusto. "Thank you for bringing them over every day."

"You're welcome," Crowley says.

The angel has warmed up considerably towards him. Maybe later he will accept his invitation to watch the stars with him at night. 

He can wait, he has all the time on Earth to wait.

"You ought to have a trim, you know."

"A trim?"

"Your hair, Crawly."

Crowley tucks a stray lock behind his ear. Aziraphale continues to stare.

An eventual answer. "... Too much trouble."

"Too much trouble? You? A demon?"

Crowley gives him an incredulous look and throws him another fruit. He catches it mid-air without much fumbling.

When Crowley turned his back from Heaven, his wings were not the only thing that was set aflame.

(As it turns out, fire does bad things to hair. It burns hot, and the angels' stares even more so.)

He figured that was how divine retribution tasted like—ashes and something irrevocably broken. When he finally found the courage to chop off his charred locks, they no longer grew in platinum blond. He remembered seeing his reflection in the water for the first time after what felt like an eternity—grey wings, flaming hair, his pride a flimsy armour against the sucker punch in his guts.

"I like it this way," he says.

Aziraphale bites into the apple, not another word spoken on the topic.

The pair of eyes train on him right now is different, Crowley assures himself. Different, in a good way.

Things are pretty much the same afterwards—Crowley will lurk around in the woods, getting out there and make some trouble (mostly by screaming at the plants for poking at him). Aziraphale, on the other hand, performs his only task at hand to insufferable perfection (thanks to him, the Gate remains untouched to this day).

Sometimes, however, he will join Crowley for a night under the stars. That alone is an improvement, he reckons.

One day amongst the seemingly endless days after the first thunderstorm, Aziraphale holds Crowley by his hand and leads him to the riverside. He does not ask anything, but Aziraphale sees the question on his raised eyebrow.

"Hush, Crawly," he says. "Just come with me."

So he does, playing the role of an oblivious one even when he may have figured something is going on. He is seated on a rock nearby the quiet stream, Aziraphale then returns with an assortment of knick-knacks after disappearing a short while.

All the play-pretend stops short when Aziraphale's hovering hands jolt him into an involuntary flinch.

"It's alright, Crawly," Aziraphale says, palms raised. Hunched torso cradling hair in a tight embrace—panic contorted around Crowley like a snake's constriction. 

"It's alright."

He gives him a small nod, eventually.

Crowley cannot help but feel a tad twitchy. His heightened sense taking in the gentle combing over his hair and fingers easing tangled knots. A few mutters here and there ("Oh Lord, I'm so sorry... This might hurt a bit...") and he can feel the pattern of interlacing locks slowly emerging under his skillful hands.

He finds his head feeling lighter already, his mood elevated.

"Where did you learn, you know, doing whatever that you are doing right now?"

"Oh, I saw them doing it, you see," Aziraphale says. "He'll comb and braid her hair, keeps everything nice and tidy."

Woven strands of long leaves discarded all over on the forest floors, many failed attempts of practice—Crowley remembers it now.

"I'm sure it will look good on you."

After a few moments of finishing touches, Aziraphale asks him to close his eyes. He obliges, shoulders tense when something is lay atop his head. _It's alright, it's alright _and Crowley nods once again.

"Open your eyes, Crawly."

A softer, gentler interpretation of him comes into view and he blinks, so does the reflection in the water. When the wreath of flowers bloom beneath his gingerly touch—petals unfurling and transforms into a crown befitting a celestial creature that belongs anywhere else besides Hell—he lets out a gasp halfway between surprise and delight.

He turns his head and catches a glimpse of the cascading patchwork of intricate braids adorned in tiny blossoms, his hair a flower bed during springtime, and Crowley never know he can be made beautiful once more.

Aziraphale stands behind him, the smile he carries is radiant and proud as the sun. "I hope you like it," he says.

And oh, he knows it already, this is the exact moment he falls, not unlike how he falls from Heaven, except there are butterflies doing somersaults in his stomach, and he will gladly chase the fall.

"I do," Crowley says. "I do."

* * *

Someday, Aziraphale will trace his fingers over indecipherable lines between the stars, he will weave stories after stories—a fallen hunter, the chained queen and so many more—into the tapestry of Milky Way, and it will glow a tad brighter by the time he is done.

Crowley, on the other hand, will be fumbling over flower stems while sitting beside him. He may have made his very first wreath of flowers out of sheer determination, threatening unspeakable deeds to them until they bend to his will.

The flowers have yet to stop trembling when Aziraphale wears the flower crown. When Crowley commands them to bloom, one of them withers instead. Aziraphale seems to not mind at all, however.

"Thank you," he says, and the stars on the night sky a far cry to the twinkle in his eyes.

Someday, they will leave the Garden of Eden, Aziraphale will lock up the Gate after bidding his farewell, Crowley will pat his shoulder, a gesture of job well done. They will go their separate ways before encountering once again, all an ineffable plan.

Someday, Crowley will knock on Aziraphale's place, a pair of scissors readied in hand, and Aziraphale will braid his hair for one last time before tearfully cutting it away.

(He never stops trying to fuss with his hair, though. He will experiment on new gadgets or products with little success, and Crowley will allow him, even though his idea of a fashionable hairstyle always dates at least a few decades ago)

Somewhere in Crowley's flat, there situates a special place—a centerpiece of an ornate Greek column commissioned from builders of The Parthenon—amongst his houseplants.

Atop the coil of braided hair resting on the column lies a flower crown, the fragrance still as fresh, its myriad of colours still as vivid as his memories from that particular day.

Sometimes, when Crowley needs a pick-me-up, he will wear it once again.

He does not know that Aziraphale has stored his in the bookshop, too. One of the flowers remains wilted, and he will not want it in any way.

Sometimes, when Aziraphale is in a good mood, he will wear it once again.

And they will find themselves smiling, in spite of all.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear kaleidoreef, 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the fic! & I'm sorry as I cannot really fit the 3rd prompt in, nor I have the time to write another fic ;v; 
> 
> Anyways, thanks for the inspiration, I really enjoy writing this! 
> 
> ______
> 
> Firstly, about Crowley's hair colour, I've been thinking whether I should keep it dark (like in the novel) as not all angels have blond hair like Aziraphale, but I went for blond due to the contrast, and admittedly I want to see a blond David Tennant HAHAHA
> 
> Secondly, I'm really into the idea that constellations are invented by Aziraphale! It just sounds so him, really, and of course Crowley does not understand it but he will sit there and listen to his stories ;-)
> 
> & yeah, I had Crowley started scaring the plants as early as Eden era HAHAHA, I figured out he sub-consciously does it at first, then he hears it on the radio hence his thoughts are justified, so he just goes all out afterwards HAHAHAHA
> 
> So yeah, hope y'all enjoy it! & let's hope that I have more time to write... I mean, I have all the ideas but too little time, will do what I can!
> 
> Have a nice day y'all! \\(>v<)/


End file.
